


In Sweet Unrest

by seraphofshadows



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Beholding!Jon, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Typical Horror, Jon also needs several hugs, Jon is dead but also not really, M/M, Martin needs a hug, Post MAG 120, This is going to be a long one, i just really wanted more beholding!jon don't judge me, s4 canon divergent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22096495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphofshadows/pseuds/seraphofshadows
Summary: All it takes in the end is a single death to free them. The Dance grinds to a halt, the Archivist dies and the world shifts half a step to the left.Former archival assistant Martin Blackwood pretends that the Entities and their avatars are gone for good. He lies to himself for months until people begin to go missing and all signs point to something terrible roaming the tunnels beneath the city. That something is watching the world above with a thousand eyes and it waits patiently.This is a story about heartbreak and connection. And perhaps, a story about love.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 25
Kudos: 164





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Get ready for the ride - it's been a long time since I've written something that was multi-chaptered and plot heavy but HERE WE GO! I just couldn't let get this idea out of my head.

> My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you. - John Keats, _Love letter to Fanny Brawne_

All it takes in the end is a single death to free them. The Dance grinds to a halt, the Archivist dies and the world shifts half a step to the left.

It may have been a leftover ripple effect from preventing the Unknowing. Or perhaps it was Elias’ imprisonment and Daisy’s disappearance that let them go. Martin, however, is certain that it is Jon that freed them. The Archivist bound them together and now that he is no longer here, they are free to leave.

Tim discovers the change first when he turns to writing out the latest in a long list of resignation letters. It is an outlet for his fury in the early hours of the morning after. He expects that when he tries to print the pages, nothing will come out. This time is different though and the printer whirs for a moment before his words are there on a physical piece of paper, crisp and clear to his sleep-bleary eyes.

It is with no small amount of satisfaction that he turns up to work the next day with a wicked grin and the letter in his hand, loudly informing the rest of the archival staff that they are free. _Finally_ free.

It doesn’t take long for the others to follow suit.

Melanie spitefully takes an axe to Elias’ desk and belongings, telling the new acting Head, Amelia from administration, that this is her resignation letter. She still wishes she could take the axe to Elias’ face, or so she tells Martin later. Still, Amelia’s shocked silence allows her to take her things and leave.

Tim comes in the following day with some paint and gets started on the walls. Soon some rather choice words about Elias and the Institute are plastered in the archives for everyone to see. Martin sneaks a photo before the cleaners get to it and it is with a gleeful laugh that Tim is escorted from the building.

Basira burns her employment contract in the middle of the archives. Her eyes are fierce as she does this and Martin thinks he can see some tears there but he doesn’t comment on them, instead wishing her luck. Then she is gone.

It takes Martin another few days. He knows Amelia expects him to leave as well from the look she keeps giving him. He also knows that there is nothing keeping him here any longer, even though he lingers with some small hope that maybe Jon will appear in that too quiet office. Eventually though, he leaves like the others and takes his first breath of freedom in the fresh afternoon air as he steps from the doorway of the Magnus Institute with shaking hands.

No longer bound to the Institute, they drift apart. They meet up a few times over drinks, sharing tales about their new workplaces and the mundane events in their lives until the conversation inevitably draws back to what they experienced. The worms, the tunnels, the Entities, and Elias Bouchard.

They do not talk about Sasha or Daisy. Or Jon. 

Each time as the night ends, they leave in somber silence. After the fifth attempt, they stop contacting each other. It is hard to let go but even harder when the presence of the others is a constant reminder of what happened.

The days pass and they drift away.

Melanie moves overseas. Tim hides. Basira vanishes.

Martin Blackwood, former Archival assistant, tries to move on.

And Jonathan Sims?

He is dead.

* * *

It has been five months now but still every book that passes into his hands makes his chest constrict and breath catch in his throat. They seem so ordinary when they are placed in his pile. Well-loved with pages often yellowed from age. Yet every time without fail, Martin tries to calm his trembling hands as he flips open to that first page. Hoping desperately that he does not see the name Jurgen Leitner beneath the cover.

He does the same with this next book. It has a deep green cover faded from years of use and cracks along the spine. His hands are gentle but still shaking as he breathes in the scented air and opens to that first page.

It is blank.

The next page is an author’s note and then the story begins. A quick scan of the rest of the book reveals what appears to be an old fictional novel about a young lady in love and he feels his shoulders unwind. It is not a Leitner. None of them are Leitners.

Martin lets out a long breath.

Then, he places the book to the side and notes down the genre, his pen moving in short and sharp strokes across the page. This is the part that he honestly enjoys and he finds a small smile falling onto his face. The cataloguing, the reading, the feeling of letting go of his outside worries as he throws himself into the work in the back room. In a way, it reminds him of his time in the archives.

The more positive moments anyway.

He reaches for the cup of tea that sits next to him and takes a small sip. The rich flavor settles on his tongue and he pages through the book for a second time. This time he adds to his description, including more detailed notes on the subject of the novel. He finds the older novels to be oddly charming in their archaic language though he rarely reads them these days.

“How are you going back there?”

Martin looks up as he hears Julie, the owner of the small store, call from the front room. He takes a moment to glance at the pile next to him. There are only a few more there.

“Nearly done!” He shouts back through the open door. “A lot of the older ones came in today so it’s taking a little longer than expected” Fingers idly twirl the pen in his hand.

“Great work Martin.” Julie’s reply is quick and he feels a warmth settle in his chest at her words.

Then, there is a sharp ringing sound. The front door has been opened, likely by a customer. His assumption is quickly confirmed as he hears Julie say, “Oh hello! Welcome to Obsidian Books”, before her voice quietens down.

Martin settles back in his chair, preparing to finish his work and takes the next book off the pile, feeling the fluttering of his heart as he opens this one as well.

It had been difficult to find a job in the aftermath of the Magnus Institute. Martin’s time in the archives gave him little that he could add to his resume without lying. So much of what Jon had asked him for was not exactly something he could talk about in an interview.

A few had also wanted to know why he had left his previous job. It had been hard to work out how to answer that question. In the end though, he had told each one that asked that he had left due to dissatisfaction with the _company culture_.

Martin lets out a soft laugh at that.

 _Company culture_ as if all he had been unhappy with was an annoying boss or bad management strategies. 

In the end, it had taken Martin a few tries before he had settled on this particular job. The others had involved too many people and that is something he tries to avoid these days. But here, sitting and paging through these books, he has found some comfort and so he has stayed.

He still remembers Tim’s laugh when he had told him about the new job over drinks before the group had gone their separate ways. They all knew just how dangerous books could be. Tim had said, with a disbelieving look, that Martin was insane to choose something that could so easily drag him back into the world they had escaped from.

Martin had told Tim in return that he could do what he wanted with his life and Tim had no say in that. He remembers all too well the tone he had used and the way the rest of the group had been shocked into a sudden silence at the way he had snapped back at Tim.

It had only taken a moment before Martin had stammered out an apology but he still stands by his words. Tim didn’t have the right to tell him what to do in the aftermath of the Institute. None of them did. If this was his way of taking back what little control he felt he had over his life these days, then it was something worthwhile to him. Even if it has too many similarities to the archives and the Entities.

It is his choice.

Quietly though, when the silence of his work becomes suffocating, he wonders if he is doing this because he feels like he can’t let go. Working in the bookstore is a way of reminding him of the better times back in the archives. Reminding him of Jon, as if by reading and cataloging these old novels he is doing his share of the statements.

On the really bad days, Martin finds that opening each new book feels as if it is a gash across his heart. A reminder of all he had gained and all he has lost.

His fingers still, resting on the next book and his breath catches again. This time, he feels the sting of tears in his eyes and he desperately shakes his head to clear it.

“Alright, that’s enough.”

Martin gets to his feet, quietly reprimanding himself.

“No more thinking about Leitners or the Institute or Jon. You need to take a quick break and then finish up your work for the day or Julie will be annoyed.” His voice is stern.

Then, he laughs softly. “Look at me. Talking to myself yet again”. He rubs a hand across his face, feeling what little energy he has drain out of him all of a sudden.

Some days are certainly easier than others and he feels today is not one of those days.

The soft murmur of voices, Julie and the customer, are still coming from beyond the open doorway. Martin inches his way closer to it, thinking that it would be good to get out of the back room for a little break. As he goes, he picks up the copy of one of his favorites from the shelf near the door- an old book of poetry – to take with him to read.

As his fingers clutch the book to his chest, Martin begins to hear snippets of the conversation and it makes him pause.

“-they are leaving. Some of them anyway. It’s hard to know what to do when you don’t feel safe in your home anymore”

“I’ve talked about it with my family. We’ll stay for now. Surely the police are looking into this”

“I should hope so. It’s not something that is easy to keep hearing on the news”

“Apparently there are plenty more who haven’t yet come forward about it as well”

“That’s not surprising. It’s a hard thing to admit to having experienced”

The conversation continues and curious now that he knows the two aren’t talking about books, Martin peeks his head out, catching a glance of Julie and a man standing by the counter. They appear deep in conversation and both look concerned. Then, Julie’s expression clears as she catches sigh of him.

“Oh Martin!” Julie turns with a smile, hands resting gently on the counter in front of her. The customer, for that is surely who the man is, also gives a nod to Martin and now caught, he comes out from the doorway.

“Oh um…sorry to bother the two of you. I just heard the sound of people talking” Martin holds out his hand to the man. “Martin Blackwood.” He says with a soft smile of his own, eyes crinkling. “I help out with cataloguing the books before they go back on the shelves.”

“Oh! Well it’s nice to meet you, Martin” The man shakes his hand. “I’m John.”

Martin chokes suddenly, a wave of fear rushing over him as he drops the man’s hand as fast as possible and steps back. The man, _John_ , blinks at him and reaches out to him this time. “Are you alright? You look a little pale”

“I’m fine” Martin waves off Julie’s concern as well, trying his hardest to calm his racing heart. “I really… I am fine. Just had a little dizzy spell is all”

“You should rest more Martin. I’ve noticed you turning up for work looking as if you haven’t slept for a minute during the night” Julie’s tone is reproachful but gentle and Martin sighs. She really means well and he knows that, but it is hard for him.

John, _John_ , sends him another glance and Martin thinks for a moment about just how different this man looks from his own Jon with his too-warm smile and the lines at the edges of his eyes. His skin is clear and perfect. His clothes neatly ironed. Posture full of confidence. He is not _Jon_.

Martin takes a breath. “Sorry, uh…you two were talking about something?” He trails off, wondering if he has ruined the moment but is glad when the other man nods in response.

“I was just asking Julie here if anyone around this area has been taken” He shrugs and continues, saying “My family is considering leaving at least for a weekend to get away from all this.”

“Taken? What do you mean?”

The two of them blink at him, dual expressions of surprise on their faces before Julie taps on the counter with her nails. “You know Martin, the people who keep getting taken by that serial kidnapper.”

Martin just stares at her, book of poetry clutched to his chest and his fingers digging into its soft cover. At his blank look, Julie waves her hand around.

“Surely you’ve heard about this. It’s been all over the news for the last few weeks! Everyone has been talking about it”

Martin laughs a little, knowing that it comes out nervous and shaky. “Um… no I don’t think I have”

“Really?” Julie’s eyes narrow but she doesn’t press him further and he’s so thankful for that. How can he properly explain that he tries to avoid the news these days? He is terrified of what he might see.

John jumps in now and Martin resolutely ignores the fluttering in his chest. “People have been getting taken all over the city. They are out walking and then the next thing they know, several hours have passed and they have no memory of what happened”

“And people think it’s a kidnapper?” Martin swallows heavily.

“No one really knows. The people who have been taken said they feel really exhausted afterwards, as if something has drained them. The police are apparently looking into it but who knows what they’ve found so far” John rolls his eyes a little.

Martin can feel his blood pounding in his ears and a wave of nausea rushes over him. This sounds too similar to some of the statements he has heard before. Something not natural, a remnant of the Entities perhaps.

But, surely, they were gone, Martin thinks to himself. Everything has been so quiet since the Unknowing and he thought… maybe everything had stopped for a while. Perhaps the Entities had left London alone for good.

His fingers start to tremble.

Julie seems to catch this and turns to give John a smile. “Well, I think that’s enough talk for today about this rather unsettling subject. Was there any other book I could help you find?”

John shakes his head. “No, you already helped me find exactly what I was after” He gestures at the bag he has in his hands. “Thank you both and I hope you have a lovely day." Then he is gone through the door.

“Are you certain you are alright?” Julie places a gentle hand on Martin’s shoulder once John leaves, voice quiet and mouth twisting with concern.

“I’m fine.” He replies too fast and he knows this from the way her mouth goes into a thin line.

“Look, Martin, if you need to talk about something, I am here for you. I want you to feel like you can come to me if you need some time off or anything else”

“I know.” Martin sighs. “Really, um...thank you. It means a lot”

Julie drops her hand and just looks at him for a moment with an expression that Martin can’t unravel. Finally, she says “Take the rest of the day. Go have some time and relax a little. And please, get some sleep tonight”

“But-“

Martin attempts to protest, feeling a twinge of guilt in his chest, but is immediately waved off by Julie. “Please Martin. It’ll make me feel better at least.”

He pauses for a moment longer and then sags against the counter with a small laugh. “Alright. I’ll take the rest of the afternoon.”

“You had better” She gives him another small pat on the shoulder. “Just pack up your things. I’ll fix up the books you have left to go and I’ll see you once the weekend is over.”

Martin nods at her and hustles back to his room to grab what he had brought to work.

It’s nice, Martin thinks, that his boss in this workplace is so different from Elias. No fake concern that his performance would be affected but real genuine worry over his wellbeing. He resolutely doesn’t think about comparing Julie to Jon.

It doesn’t take long for him to shuffle the papers and fix up the remaining books into a neat stack on the table. Then Julie is shooing him out the door and he finds himself blinking in the afternoon sunlight washing across the street. It is quiet. Quieter than usual for this time of day but he thinks nothing of it, thoughts instead straying as far away from the recent conversation as possible as he heads home.

* * *

It is when he sits down for dinner that it tends to hit him the worst.

A plate of food next to him, fork in his mouth and he feels just a wave of sadness rush over him. The feeling of _loneliness_ all too strong for a moment as his eyes prick with unshed tears. He places the fork back down.

The spices rest on his tongue for a moment and he flips his notebook open, pen hovering above the page. He wants to write but there has been something stopping him since that moment all those months ago. He needs to process and move on, Martin knows that he really does, but it’s almost as if writing about it will make it real. If he doesn’t commit the words to page, maybe Jon isn’t dead. Maybe he will turn up one day, exhausted and worn full of holes and scars but still _Jon_.

He misses him.

He misses all of them really. During their time in the archives, the group had become something of a strange but nice family for Martin. He didn’t have anyone else outside of work. No friends and a mother who didn’t want to see him. But Sasha and Tim and Jon had become something more for him, for the brief time when everything was alright before the worms arrived and Sasha was taken from them.

Martin sighs, dropping the pen and putting his head into his hands.

It’s always like this. Every single night. Alone and afraid in a world that he doesn’t know how to connect to in order to move on. He hopes that the others have managed it in their own ways, even though he suspects that they are finding it just as hard if not even harder than he does.

Martin wishes he could reach out to them even just to see if they are alright. Yet, he also is terrified of what he might find if he does. He expects scorn, hatred and anger at trying to drag them back down with him if they have gotten out. They wanted to leave the Institute in the pass and he knows he needs to respect that.

Still, their last known numbers remain in his phone. They stay there, an ever-present reminder that maybe one day he could reconnect with them. He stills care so much about each of them. Tim with his wicked grin, Melanie with her righteous anger and Basira with her gentle words.

He swallows rather heavily and gets to his feet. In a desperate attempt to drag his thoughts away from this topic, he switches on the television.

“-another one found” The news reader speaks in straight tones, expression grave. Martin freezes, halfway to sitting down as the footage shows a short lady in front of the camera, eyes wide and face pale.

“I… I don’t know what happened. I was walking out to my favourite café for my lunch break and the next thing I remember I was standing on an empty street that I didn’t really recognize and the sun was setting." Her hands are shaking as she speaks and someone asks her something offscreen.

She nods her head in response. “I suppose, looking back I did feel something before I blacked out or whatever happened. It felt like… something strange came over me and I wasn’t aware of what I was doing. As if I wanted to go somewhere that wasn’t that café or back to work. I don’t know where I wanted to go though. I can’t really explain it.”

Julie and that man had been right. This is something bad. His eyes catch on the screen, this time unable to look away as he sees the words written there.

**31 Now Confirmed Taken. 3 Still Unaccounted For.**

With trembling hands, Martin slides his phone from his pocket and he types out a message to Tim. _The Entities are stirring_ , he writes. Then he blinks and deletes the draft before he can send it. He places the phone back in his pocket and straightens up, taking a long and deep breath. No, there is no need to panic. There is no real threat.

Still, as usual Martin does a thorough check of the apartment before settling down for another night of restless sleep. This time, like all the others, there are the right number of spiders and no strange doors or silver worms.

They escaped and it is over.

(But Martin knows deep down, that none of them can ever truly escape)


	2. Chapter 2

> My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
> 
> My sense, as though of hemlock had I drunk

> -John Keats, _Ode to a Nightingale._

Martin wakes, slow and unwilling, as the soft sunlight of the morning filters through his curtains, casting his bedroom in a hazy warm glow. He pulls himself from scenes of blood and darkness, eyes fluttering open. The world gradually swims into view and he finds he can hear birdsong through the window – high trills and swooping calls.

It is a beautiful morning to wake to.

But as soon as the world around him finally sharpens, Martin groans and tries to bury his head back under his pillow.

His sleep had been plagued by terrifying images and feelings of dread that had settled deep in his chest. People being taken from the streets had stirred up that dormant terror leftover from his time in the Archives. It is not something he wants to think about but even now, it is the first thought on his mind as he takes a few deep breaths and hears the world around him waking.

Just for once, Martin thinks to himself, it would be nice to have a proper night of sleep. Julie had been right about that. Instead, he finds he cannot properly relax. There is a restlessness that sits beneath his skin and itches under his fingernails. A feeling of dissatisfaction. Of frustration. A need to do anything that makes it feel like he is doing is _something_.

It feels, sometimes, like a scream is rising from deep within his chest and the world is spinning around him. He just wishes someone would stop and turn to him and listen and reach out. To pull him back from drowning.

He sighs into the pillow.

Then, Martin rolls over to stare up at the ceiling.

This is getting him nowhere. He promised Julie that he would take the time to relax and he knows that he desperately needs to do just that. Getting outside of the apartment would help but he doesn’t want to leave. Facing the outside world right now just feels too much for him. So instead, he spends a few minutes battling his thoughts before pushing himself up off the bed. Hair mussed and face red.

A few long minutes later, Martin has a cup of tea in one hand and a piece of toast in the other. The warmth of the tea as it passes his lips and settles into his stomach makes his shoulders unwind somewhat.

“Today will be a good day” Martin says to himself, voice firm and full of confidence as he forcefully takes a bite of the toast. Positive affirmations. That’s what he will focus on today. If he says it will be a good day, then it has to be one.

But as he takes another bite, he catches a glance of his face in the mirror. There are rings under his eyes and he is far too pale in the early morning sunlight. He looks exhausted. He feels drained. There is a lack of energy that he can’t fully explain. Something beyond the inadequate sleep.

He pinches at his skin with a sigh, his mind skirting around the real issue. Nothing to be done about that. “No moping about today,” Martin says with another sip of his tea. “Just take things one step at a time and before you know it, the weekend will pass and you will have had a nice relaxing time!”

With those words spoken into the empty air and a clearer goal in mind, Martin sets to cleaning up the kitchen. Then his bedroom. Finally, he finds himself vacuuming the floors with a determined frown and a vicious attitude that sends dust flying up into his lungs.

As he makes one last sweep of the room to see if he missed anything, Martin notices his notebook lying on the table. It sits there, still where he had left it the previous night. Its many blank pages are closed and hidden away from his narrowed eyes. It has the sense of something waiting about it. As if it knows and is taunting his lack of inspiration. He wants to write, so desperately wants to go back to something that was an outlet for all of his fury and joy and grief during his time at the Magnus Institute. To go back to something that had been there even before he had found his job as an archival assistant.

But when he sees the pages, he feels like he can’t. It’s too difficult to know what to write. It’s as if he has forgotten the simple act of writing words on a page, looping the letters together with a pen. Scratching notes and comments in the margins. That freeing feeling in his chest as his thoughts tumble down into poems.

Martin hovers over the notebook.

There, lying next to it, is his favourite pen. A shiny silver thing with flashy black stripes. It is ugly but it is another remnant from the Archives. It had been a Christmas gift from Jon a while back, a clear attempt from the Head Archivist to connect with his assistants. Martin remembers, with no small amount of fondness, how embarrassed Jon had seemed that day, handing out haphazardly wrapped gifts to the others. It was not exactly something Jon was used to doing and that was clearly reflected in his choice of gifts.

But when he had handed Martin his own badly wrapped present he had stuttered out a small, “For your poetry,” and then had gone on to cough for so long that Martin had hovered worriedly over him until he excused himself.

It is really, truly, an ugly pen. But it is from Jon and so he loves it.

Martin stares down at it, feeling his memories of that day flash before him. A soft smiler patters onto his lips and he picks up the pen, feeling its weight in his fingers.

He wants to write. But he can’t do that while he stays inside, hiding away from the world.

Placing the pen gently back down next the notebook, Martin takes a breath. He has made his decision. He needs to get out of his apartment, even though it is exactly what he feels he shouldn’t do. A little voice tells him it is the right decision but it is hard to hear it over the rising anxiety. So instead, he focuses on just doing the next thing he can do.

Martin bustles around for a while, gradually getting dressed and preparing himself to face the outside world, while resolutely ignoring the television. He wants today to be calming and the ever-present threat that he will see more news about the missing memories of people who have been taken from the streets will not help that.

Finally, he stands in front of the door, jacket pulled on and a red scarf around his neck as he slides his notebook into his bag.

“Today is going to be a good day” He repeats to himself but the words this time, as he is faced with the final daunting steps to go outside, come out weak and trembling.

The fear surges up within his chest. Maybe staying inside would be a better idea.

That feeling of a scream catches in his throat as he pulls open the door. He doesn’t want to take another step forward. What he wants to do is go back beneath the covers and lie there until the day has passed by him. Today is just too harsh and unforgiving as he stares through the doorway.

Still, he clutches that ugly silver pen in his hand and takes that first step.

* * *

Fingers tap at the page. Eyes dart around, watching the people who are walking through the park on this early Saturday morning. The clouds in the sky block out most of the sun but still it is light enough to catch the faces of the children who laugh and scream as they clamber through the overgrown bushes. The adults who sigh and watch on. The young students who frantically scribble their notes down to study for upcoming tests.

Everyone else is going about their day. Everyone except Martin who sits on the bench, just watching.

A young lady walks past, hands gripping the leash of a small dog who yaps excitedly at the tree next to him. The dog, a short-haired terrier of some kind, plants its feet down and just barks, forcing the lady to sigh in the manner of one who is used to this sort of behavior.

“I’m sorry,” she says, glancing at Martin.

It takes a moment for him to realise that she is talking to him and he stammers out, “Oh… um that’s alright”, before giving her a small embarrassed smile of his own.

She huffs a little, tugging at the leash but to no avail. “Probably not the best place to sit if you wanted some peace and quiet this morning”

Martin blinks at her. “Yea, I guess not.” He pauses for a moment and then adds with a laugh, “But it is a good spot for some entertainment”

She grins back at him, face bright in the cool air. “That’s true. I hope that there haven’t been too many distractions from your writing though, or whatever it is that you are doing”

He looks down at his blank page and his mouth presses into a line. “Ah…that’s not the fault of any distractions really. Just finding it hard this morning to get inspiration”

“Well, I hope the rest of the day goes better for you then,” she says. Then, with another tug at the leash, she manages to pull her dog away this time and continues on her walk with a small wave back at Martin.

Martin taps his fingers against the notebook again. Then, he glances to the side to look at the tree that the dog had been barking at.

A tree. That is a good source of inspiration, isn’t it? So many poets had written lyrical poems about nature and its wonders. Surely Martin could do the same. It would be easy. All he had to do was take in its beauty and then the words would come.

He clicks his pen and stares at the tree. He sees its brilliantly green leaves and small buds of gentle pink flowers forming along its branches. His eyes travel down the trunk to watch as it sways gently in the breeze. Rough hewn bark gives way to tough roots that seem to rise up out of the ground in defiance of the path next to it.

And there, on the ground nestled in those winding roots, is a silver worm.

Martin stares at it for a moment. Then, his heart hammers beneath his skin and he swallows heavily. It wriggles there and seems to be making its way slowly closer. There is the scent of something in the air, wafting towards him as the tree moves. A rotting stench. So similar to Prentiss.

A shiver runs down his spine.

He gets to his feet quickly and with a vicious stomp, grinds the worm beneath his shoe. As he does this, the scent disappears and he finds himself looking around to see if he can work out where it came from. Had he been imagining it? Worms were still something of a sore spot for him and those memories of Prentiss had yet to fade in their intensity.

When he doesn’t see Prentiss or anyone covered in rotting, sagging flesh, Martin slumps back onto the bench. “It’s a park,” he says softly. “Worms live in the dirt so it’s fine to see one here. It’s normal in fact”

But his notebook lies forgotten on the path beside him for a long while as he tries to slow his racing heart and drag his thoughts away from infestations. Eventually, he gathers up a few shreds of courage and picks up the book, stuffing it none too gently into his bag.

It is with greater care that he picks up the pen, checking it to see if there are any scratches. The pen feels heavy in his hand as he holds it, the edges digging into his palms. After a careful moment of observation, Martin lets out his breath. There are no marks on it.

The calm tranquility of the park has been disturbed though and he knows he won’t be able to sit back down to try and relax. The park isn’t working for him. It is time to try something else.

With that thought in mind, Martin wanders back through the park and onto familiar streets. He needs something to calm his jittery fingers and tense muscles, so he keeps walking until he finds himself in front of one of his favourite cafes.

There is a bell above the door that jingles as he pushes it open, one hand gripping his bag. The place is still fairly quiet but there are a few customers around. Not as busy as the park and a better place, Martin feels, to find inspiration and get back to writing.

“Welcome! What can I get for you today?”

Martin scrunches his toes and glances up at the board behind the girl. He takes a moment and then another and its only when he hears a cough behind him that he lurches forward, embarrassment colouring his cheeks.

“Oh… sorry”

The girl laughs a little and the smile on her face becomes a touch more genuine as she does. “That’s alright. Take your time”

Martin lets his eyes roam over the options again, trying to work out if he feels like being more adventurous today. He thinks for a second of his attempt at the park and of the worm wriggling in the soil. No, perhaps being more adventurous was not a good idea for today at least.

He quickly orders his usual, a warm cup of his favourite black tea and when it is ready, heads over to sit at one of the corner tables.

It is nearing midday now and the café is getting busier by the minute. Martin glances around and sees the chairs filling up fast. He is glad he got this particular table. When he had first found the place, he preferred to sit near the door. The ambience of a busy café had been soothing to him.

Now though, he prefers to sit away from the crowds. A nice quiet spot in the corner, away from those coming in and out of the café. It is a way to allow him his own space and a feeling of security in his small corner.

It is also a good place to write some poems.

He takes a sip of the warm drink and pulls out his notebook, placing it gingerly on the table in front of him. Then with a click of his pen, he pages through until he finds the next blank page.

The tip of the pen touches the paper and a small dot of ink appears there.

He stares at it, thinking about what words he should write. There are so many things that he could focus on as the subject of his poetry. He could write about his childhood or perhaps his frustrating relationship with his mother. He could explore the feelings of insomnia and anxiety that had plagued him recently. He could detail the way he feels so alone and without anyone to lean on.

Martin frowns and takes another sip. Then another. Then the drink is half gone and still there are no words on the page. But as he stares down at it, he realizes that something else has taken the place of where the words should have gone. A twisting, jagged spiral that his hand is lazily sketching with that silver pen.

He swallows heavily and gently places the pen down next to the book. He had not meant to do that.

Martin traces the spiral with his finger, eyes blurring as he starts to find it hard to look at. He thinks for a moment of echoing laughter and too-sharp hands. Of a door that leads to twisting hallways that he knows he could forever lose himself in.

“It’s alright” He whispers to himself, snatching his hand back from the page. “Maybe it’s just not the day for writing.”

Pushing himself back into his chair, Martin looks up and away from the notebook. As he does, he sees something twist out of the corner of his eye. He glances around the café and there it is, hidden in his peripheral vision. Something is moving and shifting.

He bites his lip. Then, with a sharp jerk of his head, Martin spins around in his seat and this time manages to focus in on whatever it is.

He sees a door.

It is nondescript and painted white, closed shut but appearing to lead further back into the café. Martin stares at it and desperately tries to remember if the door had been there the last time he looked. He feels his eyes trying to slide off it as he stares and it seems to twist in his vision. An impossible door. But surely, it is not what he thinks it is.

Refusing to take his eyes off it, Martin tries to think if he had seen any stranger in the café who had been watching him. He knows the avatars of the Spiral and the feeling of wrongness that follows them. The twisting appearances. He can’t remember though as he hadn’t been paying attention when he had entered the place.

It lasts a long while. Martin still staring at the closed door, waiting to see if someone would open it. But an age passes and no one does. The door merely sits there as his drink grows cold and his heart flutters beneath his skin.

Eventually, Martin knows he has to leave. He gazes at the door a moment longer and then with concerted effort, drags his eyes away. He packs his things as quickly as possibly and hustles out the doorway. He does not look back.

He thinks he hears the sound of twisted laughter following his footsteps.

Outside, the street is quieter and Martin keeps his head down as he walks, not knowing where he is going. Maybe it’s time to head home, he wonders. He tried so hard to get out and do something different to break those feelings of inadequacy but all it has done is remind him of the things he is trying to get away from.

Pulling his scarf tighter, it takes Martin a few more seconds before he hears the sound in the air around him. It is a strange whine, a hint of static and with an added tang of metal on his tongue as he glances up, coming to a stop.

No one else seems to have noticed or even stopped what they are doing. The thinned-out crowds of people wander the streets, laughing and chatting as they go. They seem carefree and in a far better state of mind than Martin is. They seem happy really. Martin looks at them with a twinge of envy as they keep moving about their day.

All of them, except for one man who stands on the street corner and does not move.

Martin frowns at him, feeling a tingle of something strange at the base of his spine and his fingers unconsciously curl tighter around his bag. There is something wrong with this man. He knows it as soon as he sees him standing there, strangely immovable and that odd buzzing grows even louder.

He watches for a moment longer and then shakes his head, trying to break from whatever has taken over his thoughts. “No, Martin,” he chides himself softly, “it’s just you imagining things again.”

First the worm, then the twisting doorway and now this strange man. He knows it’s all just his mind tricking him into thinking that the Entities are stirring again after he heard the news story. There is nothing to worry about. Nothing has happened in almost a year now.

Yet, as Martin goes to keep walking, he can’t help but think on that nagging feeling that tugs at his legs, pulling him towards the man. He steps closer. And closer. Until he stands only a few long strides away and then he inhales sharply.

The man is not blinking. His gaze is vacant, mouth open ever so slightly.

As Martin watches, the man tilts his head as if he hears something and that buzzing grows louder. As it reaches its crescendo, and Martin puts his hands over his ears to block it out before it becomes too painful, the man jerks and turns around. With a stiff walk, he shuffles off the street corner and past the edges of the buildings behind him.

Martin watches him trudge into the alleyway between two shops. The sound has grown softer but it is still there, sitting like an uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades. He steps forward to follow him. There is a pause and then -

“Stop!” Martin yells into the quiet and to his surprise, the man freezes. He turns that blank stare onto Martin and as he does, Martin feels something shift in the air around him as if he thousands of people are watching him all at once. Yet, they are alone in this alleyway. No one is looking.

Martin begins to shake. This feeling, he knows it. That feeling of being watched, as if there is something he can’t see that is beyond this man in the air around him. He knows with absolute certainty that it is watching him and cataloguing. He is at the centre of something terrible and it is all focused on him for a single moment.

“The Eye” Martin whispers, frozen in terror. Somehow, it is watching him through this man. He knows it. That feeling that was there whenever he walked into the Archives. It is something he still has nightmares about and somehow, impossibly, it is here.

Then, the Eye turns away.

Moment broken, Martin sags and clutches desperately at the building to his side for support. His breath comes in short and sharp gasps as his head swims. In front of him, the man spins back around to clamber through the broken doorway of what appears to be an old apartment building.

The worm and the door could be just a remnant of his nightmares- something not real and easily chased away by daylight the longer he looks at them. But this, _this_ he knows, with a deep certainty, is the Eye. Beholding. It is still here, watching and waiting.

In that single moment, his worst fears have been realized. “We didn’t escape” Martin whispers desperately into the chilled air around him, a frantic laugh escaping through his lips. There is an edge of mania to it. A panic rushing through his veins.

With a sudden jolt, Martin looks back up to see the man continue beyond that broken doorway. He knows that he can’t let him get away so he lunges forward just in time, witnessing the man descending down stairs that lead into darkness.

Here, Martin pauses. Should he come back another day to see what is down those stairs? If the Eye is involved, he knows he risks getting dragged back into the whirlwind of terrors that plagued his time in the Archives. He wonders, now, if the worm and the door had in fact been further proof that something strange was happening or if they really were just things he had imagined.

Hovering on the edge of the doorway, he weighs up the decision in his mind. He doesn’t want to go down there. Everything in him is screaming at him to run far away. To flee back to his bedroom and lay beneath the covers, ignoring the outside world. It was what he had wanted to do this morning but in a rush of intense need, he had decided instead to brave the world around him. Now, he feels a pang of regret. If only he had stayed at home.

Martin knows though that it would not have truly changed things. The fates of those who had been taken played on his mind. Could this man be experiencing something similar? Was the Eye the one behind the strange disappearances? This would not leave him alone until he found out the truth, he knew that.

The thought strikes him so suddenly that he laughs, the sound echoing oddly into the darkness beyond him. “Gosh, Jon really rubbed off on me, didn’t he? Can’t let things go anymore.”

With that thought, Martin steps forward and into that darkness, down the stairs.

The musty smell hits him first – assaults his senses as his eyes struggle to adjust to the lack of light that he has descended into. Then he feels the dirt coating the walls as his fingers trail along the bricks. He can taste ash on his tongue and as he blinks, he finds he can see burnt remains in the room he has walked down into.

He grabs his phone, turning on the flashlight. Ahead of him lies a doorway that leads further into what appears to be tunnels of some kind. Dust stirring up beneath his feet, Martin steps forward to see where it leads and as he does, he feels something cold wash over him as his thoughts catch up.

“Oh no…” Martin says, feeling that aftertaste of stale air yet again as he grinds his teeth together. “It’s the tunnels.”

They look almost the same, he thinks as he keeps walking through one of the archways. Made from a similar brick, in a confusing and twisted pattern. It has to be the same tunnels that came from beneath the Institute which means that…this may lead back to that place.

His heart thumps. The shadows close in around him, pressing against his sides and it seems as if the walls are shrinking. Everything is becoming too much. Finding it hard to breathe, Martin struggles in a panic. No one is here with him and if he is taken beneath the tunnels, no one will come for him. Julie has no idea. Tim and the others have been gone for a long time too. His mother wouldn’t care.

He is alone. Utterly alone and so afraid.

As he stares into the darkness, down the twisting tunnels, Martin pulls out that silver pen and clutches it in his hand. It is cold and heavy but it provides a comforting weight in his fingers. It is a lifeline – a reminder of why he is doing this, why he wants to find out what is happening in these tunnels.

“Today will be a good day” The words are thin and trembling in the stale air.

For Sasha and Daisy.

For Jon.

And he steps forward.

* * *

_The eyes watch and the Eye waits. It takes the words of those who wander the streets of the city as its payment. The days pass and the hours gather beneath its gaze. Then, a new man stumbles into the darkness and the Eye turns to See._

_There is an ever so gentle click in the darkness and the whir of something as it begins to record._

_“Statement begins”_


	3. Chapter 3

> As from the darkening gloom a silver dove  
> Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light,

> \- John Keats, _As From The Darkening Gloom A Silver Dove_

Martin squints up at the broken lightbulb. It is held precariously in an old-fashioned remnant of ironwork, a strange relic from years ago that marks this new set of crossroads he has come to. He stares at it. For a moment he swears the iron is shaped in the twisting jagged lines of a spiderweb and it seems to _move._ Then he blinks and it is back to its proper shape as a tangle of vines and flowers, covered in dust.

He swallows heavily. It feels like it has been hours since he first stepped down here but he knows it is the strangeness of the tunnels that is making him feel that way. They are made of the usual brick and stone but they always felt unnatural to him. Something about the winding corridors and deep shadows makes the world above vanish. All that remains is the darkness that he walks through and the fear that has settled into his skin.

The trail of that man has gone long cold, vanished into the depths of the tunnels. He is gone and Martin fights against the temptation to run back into the sunlight and fresh air. Even the comforting presence of Jon’s gift seems to pale in comparison to the terror that now rises up within him. He is alone and he is afraid.

Martin takes a long breath and peers through the swirling dust, the dim light from his phone doing little to reveal what lies beyond. Each new path looks the same to him. There is nothing to distinguish them and so he picks one at random, continuing onwards.

As he passes another bend, he wonders if the tunnels are playing tricks on him. That feeling of something _wrong_ sits in his chest and he begins to notice things getting stranger the deeper he goes. It feels odd to him – the way the grime coats his boots and chokes his lungs. The way sounds echo eternally in the dark and his footprints seem to vanish as soon as they appear. It makes his fingers grip tightly at the edges of his phone, hoping that its soft light will not lead him astray.

Eyes fixated on his path ahead, he doesn’t notice the broken wood beneath his feet until it is too late and he stumbles for a moment, cursing softly as he falls heavily against the wall. His breath is knocked from him in surprise and his shoulder catches awkwardly on the stones. There is a long, tense moment as he tries to fight down the rising panic. Then, he straightens up, wincing at the tenderness in his arm.

A quick glance down reveals the splintered remnants of a wooden beam, likely from the roof of the tunnel above. It is nothing sinister and yet Martin can’t help but feel a shiver pass through him as he is reminded of the first time he ran into the tunnels, so long ago.

Prentiss’ attack had been the first real indication of the danger that their small group had stumbled into, erasing whatever safety they had once had behind the walls of the Institute. That sense of security was gone in an instant when the writhing masses of worms had spilled into the archives. They broke down the walls, tearing everything to shreds.

The tunnels had been a part of that moment – dark memories of fearing he would never find his way out, instead being left to suffocate in its depths. In spite of the horrible moments though, Prentiss’ attack also held one fond memory. Jon’s quiet talk with Martin and the two of them huddled together, words soft as they took comfort that they were at least not alone.

Now though, Martin is by himself.

Shaking fingers point the light into the tunnel beyond and he shuffles carefully forward, stepping over the wooden beam. Another turn, another twist, another step into the dark.

It is not long before something else disturbs his endless progression. A clanging sound breaks the silence and he jumps suddenly, nearly losing his grip on his phone. When nothing further shifts in the darkness, Martin frowns and feels his shoulders unwind. With all of his attention so focused on his surroundings, he can feel his thoughts flittering like frightened birds. Hard to wrangle down and remind that not every little sound is an indicator that something horrible is lurking beyond. Sometimes, it is just the crumbling of walls or the echo of his own movements stretching down never-ending corridors.

Martin turns another corner to see just emptiness ahead of him. His frown deepens and he continues on, footsteps pattering on the floor beneath. He pauses in a few of the doorways, peering into rarely-used rooms that were built for purposes still unknown. Some of the rooms hold remnants of items that appear to have been destroyed long ago. Books with their pages ripped out, burnt chairs, shattered lightbulbs and in one room, a large table that has deep scratches in its wood.

All of these make Martin’s heart flutter within his chest. He wishes he had talked to Jon more about the tunnels. He doesn’t know if these had always been here or if they are some clue as to what has been happening these past few months. Still, he takes his time in each of the rooms and snaps a few photos for reference. The scratched table in particular has the look of something sinister and he trails his fingers gently in the deep grooves before he forces himself to step back.

He hopes he does not find another body down here. Not again.

Time passes and he continues on until he reaches another set of crossroads leading to three different tunnels. Martin peers down each of them, one at a time, assessing what little he can see in the dim light from his phone. These tunnels all look the same. Then, all of a sudden, one of them feels different. His muscles tense unconsciously as he steps towards it. Breaths start coming in shorter gasps. Palms grow sweaty. Eyes struggle to focus.

Martin hesitates. This could be it.

Still, he can’t quite bring himself to follow the path. Is it worth plunging forward into the unknown? This time he has no one he can rely on. The others would be a welcome presence right now, even with Tim’s grumbling about the Fears. They are gone though and he is left to pick up the pieces of whatever is happening to the city.

And if he doesn’t, then who will?

Steeling himself, Martin plunges forward down that tunnel. He finds he has to force himself to continue, pushing past that pressure that sits on his shoulders and feels like it is trying to force him back. It is not long before something catches his eye.

Ahead there is a dark stain that lingers on the walls. His breath catches and he moves towards it, keeping his light on that mark. It is dark and splattered across a wide arc. As he moves, he sees it glisten and he dimly realizes that it is a deep, dark red.

Blood. Fresh blood.

“Shit,” Martin curses softly to himself, stepping back in a hurry. Could it be from that man? Maybe. He hasn’t seen anyone else so far but there could be a cult of Beholding worshippers living down here, for all that he knows of the tunnels.

“What is going on?”

From his own experiences with the Eye, he knows that it craves information and draws its power from knowledge. It tends to be more subtle than the other Fears he has encountered. Memories of a door opening and meandering laughter still make him shiver but the Eye has never seemed like that to him. There is something about this that doesn’t feel right.

He glances back and there is nothing but dim shadows beyond. There are no footprints. He swallows heavily. Right. There is no way back for someone like him who is lost in the tunnels. He can only continue onwards and hope that it will be alright.

“I should’ve thought this through more,” Martin whispers softly, giving the bloodied wall a wide berth.

There is a doorway up ahead and he pauses to look inside. Nothing shifts in the dark but there is still that intense pressure that rests on him. “Maybe I’m imagining it?” he wonders to himself. The tunnels _had_ always felt unnatural to him but this seemed to be something more than that. A more intense feeling than before but still not quite the same as it had felt when the man had turned and the Eye had looked back at him.

Surely the Eye would be watching him now if it had taken over the tunnels as its domain. Or maybe that was it. It was here but it wasn’t watching him. A presence like it had been in the Institute – always there but not always focused on him in particular. Martin feels the thought catch alight and he suddenly knows that he is right.

“Okay,” Martin whispers to himself, “what do I know so far? People have been disappearing off the streets and likely being brought down here, just like the man that I saw. The Eye is involved somehow and maybe the other Fears. Those it takes seem to lose their memories…”

He trails off, eyes widening. That could happen to him too. Would it erase what he has already seen? He has no idea why their memories were taken in the first place. There is still so much he is unsure about with all of this.

Shaking off the swarm of thoughts that say _well maybe you shouldn’t be doing this,_ Martin pulls back from this room and quietly makes his way further down this corridor.

He gets halfway to the next doorway when that pressure grows more intense. It seizes at his limbs and for a second, Martin can’t breathe. Eyes widen as a wave of realization washes over him. Whatever he has come into the tunnels hunting lies beyond that next open door.

He fights against the fear and inches forward, switching off the light on his phone. It takes several, long moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness as he peers around the doorway. There is something in the shadows and he holds his breath. Then, he realizes what he is looking at. At the centre of the room lies a chair and, in that chair, sits that man. His face is still oddly blank, mouth open ever so slightly. The vacant eyes seem to be looking at the wall in front of him. Arms hang awkwardly at his side. He seems to be alone but Martin can’t make out anything on the opposite side of the room, the shadows too dark to pierce even as his eyes adjust.

The man hasn’t noticed him yet and Martin thanks the universe for that small blessing. There is a brief moment as he thinks on what to do. Then, he pulls out his phone again and takes a photo. Then another. He is so distracted with trying to see what his phone can capture that he jumps as the man begins to speak.

Whatever he is saying is muffled at first, the sounds all jumbled as if there is a barrier between the two of them. Martin lets his hands drop and moves forward ever so slightly. As he does, it’s as if he has broken through the surface of a lake and then, the sound is just _there_. Too loud now for his sensitive ears after walking alone for so long.

“- and there it was, standing at the edge of the crowd. At the time I thought nothing of it. The next morning though, I saw it again. It was watching me; I swear it was and yet no one else could see it. I asked them – at work, at home, at the café. They all just looked at me and I was told, rather pointedly by some coworkers, that perhaps I just needed some more sleep”

The man laughs then and Martin blinks. It is a sound full of frustration and anger, yet those eyes are still staring at that wall and there is no expression on his face.

“I thought, after that first week, that maybe I was imagining it. Everyone else seemed to think so and I had seen that person in more places than I could even remember. They were always there, watching and waiting – I thought maybe to kill me? I couldn’t sleep. They started appearing at my desk each day as the others walked by. It was just always… _there._ ”

Martin realizes with a start that the way the man is speaking reminds him of the statements people have given him over the years. Not the fake ones but the ones that just felt real. This man is talking about his experience with something strange. He is giving a statement.

Eyes widen. Maybe that’s what the Eye has been doing. Feeding in the tunnels beneath the city and taking its residents for its own purposes. It no longer has the Institute as an option and instead, has been forced to take to the dark in order to consolidate its power. The more Martin thinks about it, the more it makes sense to him.

The man continues to speak and Martin begins to reach into his bag for the notebook. He needs to write something down, to explain what he is witnessing. He needs more information.

Martin is so fixated on listening to the words being spoken in front of him that as he slips the notebook out, he doesn’t notice that it pulls something else out along with it. The object falls to the ground with a metallic clang, the sound too-loud in the air around him.

He freezes. The man falls silent, sentence cut short. The darkness beyond him _shifts._ Then, for a second, he sees a million eyes open in the shadows beyond and his heart _thuds_ as the Eye is there: physical and tangible in a way he had never seen it before.

It is looking at him.

It knows he is here.

It is with great effort that Martin manages to turn his head and break that gaze, freeing up his limbs long enough that he can frantically scrabble in the other direction. His mind is just a litany of _RUN_ as he sprints back the way he came.

Heart thudding in his chest, Martin moves as fast as he can through the tunnels. He doesn’t know where he is running to but just knows that any place away from the Eye would be good. He keeps his head fixated forward, refusing to look behind him as he stumbles around another corner. The dust swirls in his wake and he knows he is making too much noise, disturbing that endless quiet.

Run. _Run._

He thinks he can hear something moving, following him.

After what feels like an age, Martin finally pulls to a stop. His breath is ragged and his chest heaves as he tries to blink away the spots that are threatening his vision. He leans against the wall, clutching at it as if it is a lifeline in these twisting, endless corridors.

It is still there though. That sense of being watched. More subtle than before but he can feel it, that tingle at the base of his neck, telling him to turn around and see what is behind him. The Eye knows he is here now and he has its attention. There is no way he can escape it.

He turns around. There is nothing behind him – just stone and brick walls. The same as the rest of the tunnels. But he can sense it, in that darkness. Something is watching him and it is waiting. For what? Martin doesn’t know and he wonders if it wants him to give a statement, to feed it.

Then, that Fear latches on.

His feet are pulled forward and he moves, eyes widening in shock. It is forcing him to come towards it. A compulsion that sits in his limbs and tangles his feet. He can’t turn around. He can’t run anymore. It has him in its grip and will not let him go. He tries to speak but finds that he can’t. A scream rises in his throat but even this he cannot give voice to. It clamps down on his tongue, refusing to give him any leeway. The building fear within him gives way to fury all of a sudden. It was the Eye that resulted in the deaths of Sasha and Jon. It would not do this to him, he would not let it. So he struggles, fruitlessly, against his invisible bindings but there is no escape until finally, he is pulled to a stop.

There is a rustle in the air in front of him but he finds he can’t see anything in its gloom. The presence grows closer and closer until it feels as if it is just there, tangible and within an arm’s reach. Then, Martin gasps and chokes and all of a sudden, he has his voice back, spluttering as he falls to the ground.

A million eyes open in the darkness beyond.

_“What is your name?”_

The voice comes out of the darkness. It’s rich and discordant, the sound utterly inhuman. It has that eerie quality that Michael’s always had but this sounds even less natural. It is a grating sound. It bounces against the walls, against his mind. It hisses and pulls and tears at his consciousness. It sounds for a second like a thousand screams pulled into one. Then, it sounds like the buzzing of insects at night. Then, it is the quiet whisper of pages being turned.

The compulsion draws the words out over his tongue before he has a chance to stop them. “Martin Blackwood” He gasps and the tingling feeling of dread rises further up his spine.

There is a soft hissing sound. Then the voice speaks again.

_“Why did you come into the tunnels, Martin Blackwood?”_

The words are spoken without inflection. There is no emotion to be found in this empty husk of a voice. It is the Eye, using a new method of communication to draw out his statement. Attempting to talk in the way that people do but going so far off the mark as to become something so terrifying that he struggles to comprehend it.

Martin gags as he finds his mouth opening and the words are spat out, against his will. “There was a man on the street who was acting odd. I followed him to find out what was happening but got lost on my way through the tunnels.”

Was this what it had been like for those that Jon had spoken to? The people who hadn’t wanted to talk but found themselves spilling their stories when they stepped into the archives and Jon asked them to speak. The Beholding was here, pushing at the words in his mind and dragging them to the tip of his tongue. Into the stale air beyond him before he can even think to stop them. It is a compulsion, of that there is no doubt.

 _“And you wanted to find me”_ The words are spoken softly into the air and Martin feels like he can hear laughter hiding behind the clipped tones and sibilant hiss. It is playing tricks on his mind now.

Martin swallows heavily and suddenly, that compulsion seems to lesson and his tongue is not rooted to the top of his mouth. He struggles to his feet and before he can second guess himself, asks “And who are you?”

There is a shift in the darkness, those eyes shimmer and move with whatever is there beyond what he can see.

He thinks of Prentiss and the worms. He thinks of Michael and the doorway. This is the Eye as he has never seen it before. He doesn’t know what it is truly capable of, what it can and will do to him.

He steps back. There is another soft hiss, a static sound and then – _“You know what I am. I do not need to answer that for you.”_

“Why are you down here then? Got lost on the way back to the Magnus institute? Oh wait, that’s right. We kicked you out” Martin lets the words slip out before he can pull them back, that rage flaring yet again.

There is a long silence. Then, _“It has a grip on you. Can you feel it?”_

Martin blinks. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

_“Tell me, Martin Blackwood. Tell me about the - ”_

The words are drowned out as a buzzing sound grows in his ears and feels that wave of compulsion take over him once again, falling to his knees. In a last-ditch attempt to stave off what he knows is coming, he aims his phone forward and _SNAP_.

His mind goes blank.

The next thing he sees are the bright street lights painted against the backdrop of the night sky. His head is swimming and Martin takes a long breath in as his mind comes back to him.

He is sitting on the edge of the street. Hours have passed and night has fallen. He feels drained, limbs oddly sore and it hurts just to breathe. He sits there for a long time, head in his hands and eyes staring blankly at the asphalt beneath his feet as people wander past. A few pause to look at him but he doesn’t notice, his head swimming as he tries to process what he just experienced.

Martin is not even aware when the tears begin to fall.

He remembers all of it. Well, not quite all of it, but his mind keeps drawing back to the sight of those eyes in the darkness and the terror of not being in control. The way it had looked at him, really _looked_ and had known what he was there for. There was no hiding from it, no twisting words and lies to throw it off his scent. It knew him now, maybe even moreso than it had when he had been working in the archives. But here, it seemed far more dangerous.

The Eye had always been the outside observer, pushing things to suit its goals but mostly just watching. It terrifies him that now it seems to have a different goal and is more than capable of inserting itself into the world in a more drastic way. It is no longer encompassed by the constraints of the Institute. It has been freed.

Martin is dimly aware that his hands are shaking. He knows has no hope of standing against it. The blank hole where his memories should be – of the rest of the conversation, of how he had gotten out of the tunnels – make him wonder how on earth anyone could stand up against it.

He reaches for his bag, hoping to take some comfort in that favourite pen as a reminder of why he had gone into the tunnels in the first place. But as he looks through his belongings, he realizes that it is no longer there. Then, he remembers the sound of something falling in the dark and he suddenly knows where it is. He grimaces. There is no way he can get it back now.

“Okay Martin. You’ll be fine,” his words are soft and he feels his tears begin to ease. “You stepped into the domain of the Eye and still came out. It doesn’t want to kill you or anything. It will be fine.”

As his mind clears, Martin thinks of the pictures he took. The fear subsides and he wonders if they are still there. He pulls out his phone, opening it up to view the images it has saved on it. He immediately sees the pictures he took in the tunnels. The scratches in the table, the burnt books, the never-ending corridors. Then, there is a final one. He clicks to open it.

It is a picture that seems to be made of static at first glance. It is dark and shadowed and there are little blips around the edges of the image that look eerily like eyes in the darkness. As he stares at it, he feels it moves in front of his eyes, twisting and shaping in a way that reminds him too much of the Spiral. Beyond the static, he almost can see words hidden there but he can’t read them. They are made from strange symbols, curved and utterly incomprehensible to his eyes.

And there, at the centre, is the unmistakable shape of a figure.


End file.
